


Undertow

by thebisexualbanshee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 12.03 coda, Alcohol, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Coda, Comfort/Angst, DeanCas - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, Fluff, Gay Sex, Infant Death, M/M, Mary Winchester - Freeform, Miscarriage, Slow Burn, Smut, Spoilers, Trigger Warning: Miscarriage, beach, non-graphic, season 12, season twelve spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2018-08-28 03:22:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8429608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebisexualbanshee/pseuds/thebisexualbanshee
Summary: Sam finds a case in Panama City Beach, Florida, and the boys agree that in the wake of the recent chaos, culminating in the leaving of Mary Winchester, they could use an excuse to get away for a few days. Dean invites Castiel to meet them at the beach for a "family vacation."





	1. Case & Call

**Author's Note:**

> This is a semi-coda for 12.03, so it does contain spoilers--for seasons 11 & 12 especially! It was partially inspired by listening to Guiding Light by Foy Vance. 
> 
> Trigger Warning: miscarriage/infant death (non-graphic, only briefly mentioned as part of the ghost story in ch. 2, but please be aware that it is there)

It wasn't often that their hunts led them into bigger cities, but Dean was always secretly pleased when they did. Sam wasn't even secretly pleased--he was usually giddy. Dean guessed it had something to do with the clubs being reminiscient of all the college parties he'd gone to with Jess before getting sucked back into the life. Whatever it was, the chaos of the city was a welcome deviation from the abandoned warehouses and off-the-grid cabins the boys were used to frequenting.  
  
So when they caught wind of a case on the Florida panhandle--in the infamous Panama City Beach, no less--Sam and Dean were both on board. And they could definitely use a change of scenery after the events of the last few days. Mary's departure had made the bunker feel suddenly emptier, suddenly more cold and barren, and the heat of the South felt like a welcome change.  
  
"I could use the warm weather," Dean admitted to Sam over coffee, watching his younger brother skim a laptop. "No other hunters around to take care of it?"  
  
"Doesn't seem like it," Sam answered, closing the computer and lounging back. "The email from Garth said the only one he knows of in that area is laid up with a broken leg. And with Mom..."  
  
Dean flinched, and Sam trailed off. "We could _both_ use the warmer weather for a few days," he finished, rising. "I'll go get packed."  
  
"Yep," Dean sniffed. "I'll call Cas, let him know where we're headed. Leave in ten?"  
  
"Yep," Sam parroted, rounding the corner. When he was gone, Dean let out a sigh, pressing his fingertips into his eyes. Sam wasn't taking Mary's leaving well, but Dean was taking it worse, and he couldn't even pretend to hide behind his liquor and anger this time--the hurt had slipped through his cracks like sand, and he knew that Sam knew. He could always tell when Sammy was trying to be strong for his sake. Even as a kid, Sam had always tried to ease Dean's burdens. That's what this Florida case was. They both knew it'd likely be over before they could get there, but neither of them said it. There was too much hurt. They needed this.  
  
Dean's hands dropped to the kitchen table with a dull thud, and he glanced to where his phone was lying a few inches away. To his surprise, it was already blinking with a notification. Inspection proved it was a text from Cas, only two minutes old: _Call me_ and a string of emoticons that made little sense to Dean--sad face, chicken, wifi symbol, rotary telephone--but made him smile in spite of himself anyway. He picked up the phone and dialed the angel.  
  
"Hello, Dean," Castiel answered almost immediately. "Are you alright?"  
  
"Yeah, hey, Cas," Dean replied, rising to head down the hall to his room and get packed up himself.  
  
"You can be honest with me, Dean," Cas said, voice low, muffled--like he was driving with the windows down.  
  
"Well--alright, I've been better."  
  
"I know," Cas replied, kindly, if matter-of-factly.  
  
"How?" Dean tucked the phone between a shoulder and ear, chucking shit into a duffel bag on his bed.  
  
"I don't have my wings right now," Cas began, "But I still hear angel radio. I can still find you when you're particularly distressed."  
  
"Oh," Dean blurted, startling a moment. "Yeah, uhm. Mom left." He left it at that. He feared his voice would break otherwise, and cleared his throat. "So me and Sammy are heading down to Florida. Caught a case. Could use a break from the crazy anyway. I was actually gonna call when you texted. To let you know, if you came home."  
  
There was relative silence on the other end for so long that Dean double-checked to make sure they hadn't been disconnected. "Cas? You there?"  
  
"Dean..." he breathed out over the staticy background. "I'm sorry about your mother."  
  
"Thanks, Cas. I don't really want to talk about it."  
  
"Of course," Cas answered. "Florida, you said?"  
  
"Yeah," Dean answered, and smiled out of habit. "Yeah, Panama City, actually. Parties and strippers on the beach. Me and Sammy are gonna take care of a haunting and then have some fun."  
  
"You've certainly earned it," Cas answered, though to Dean, he sounded more distant.  
  
He changed the subject. "So--yeah, I know you're busy," he threw the duffel over his shoulder, heading for the door. "How's the hunt for Lucifer going?"  
  
"I think it's at a standstill," Cas sighed. "At least for the moment. Crowley and I found Rowena--"  
  
"Wait--back up. You're working with Crowley?"  
  
"It isn't preferable," the angel grumped. "But it proved helpful. He managed to find Rowena, who has Lucifer trapped in a decaying vessel at the bottom of the ocean for now."  
  
"Huh. Can't complain, I guess," Dean conceded.  
  
"It's not quite a win," Castiel said. "But it'll do for the moment."  
  
"Sure," Dean nodded to himself--a needless gesture over the phone. He heard Sam's door shut down the hallway, and the familiar sound of his heavy boots echoing through the bunker. His heart was already in his throat over Mary, so he didn't intend to sound as desperate as he probably did when he blurted, "Hey, Cas, why don't you meet us there?"  
  
"In Florida?" The angel sounded incredulous. "Why? Do you...require help with the spirits? Are there too many?"  
  
"No--I mean, sure, you could probably help, but--no," Dean stammered, voice lowering a bit, hiding from Sam's ears. "Just--you know, you've had a rough time lately too. And you're our brother. Family vacation?"  
  
The line was quiet for a moment; Dean heard the horn of a passing vehicle approach and fade on the other side of the line. "Of course, Dean," Cas finally answered.  
  
"Great," Dean sighed in relief, an accidental smile gracing his lips. "I'll text you the address."  
  
"I'll see you soon," Cas soothed over the line. Something about the tenor of his voice prickled Dean's arms with goosebumps. He was midway through an "Okay, yeah" when Cas hung up. They still had some work to do on the angel's phone presence.  
  
He pushed out of his room and down the hall, still looking at his phone when he found Sam in the library. "Cas is gonna meet us there," Dean said simply. "Ready?"  
  
"Yeah. Let's go," Sam answered, though he cocked an eyebrow at Dean's announcement. He didn't comment on it, though. "I clocked the drive. About twenty hours if we don't stop."  
  
"I'll take the night shift," Dean nodded, tossing his brother the keys. "You got the first ten hours."  
  
"Sure," Sam said, heading for the stairs, but watching Dean. "You okay? Get any sleep last night?"  
  
Dean shook his head. "No. Not a bit."


	2. Sunrise, Sunset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean arrive and make quick work of the case; Castiel arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Miscarriage/infant death (non-graphic, brief, but there)

The boys switched out around 8 PM, and Dean had actually managed to get some shut eye in the back seat of the Impala, thanks to most of what was left in a flask of whiskey and a couple sleeping pills. They ate some quick fast food for dinner, but Sam was happy enough to crash out in the back and leave Dean in silence. Dean didn't complain. He played his usual casettes for a while--Zeppelin and Sabbath, mostly--until Sammy was snoring loudly enough for Dean to know the music wouldn't wake him up. Then he switched to the radio--country, pop, Taylor Swift--anything but the classics he and his mother loved. Anything to keep from thinking about her, or remembering her face as she turned away. It didn't really help; he still felt a cold stone in his stomach, weighing him down into his seat.  
  
Sam didn't sleep through the whole night, but when he woke and climbed into the passenger seat, he didn't speak. Didn't comment on the music choice. He watched Dean for a long while, and then stared out the window instead, watching the darkness creep past the Impala windows.  
  
They never voiced it to each other, but both brothers often felt that driving at night was sometimes like circling a race track--never-ending and at times, anxiety-inducing. It made Dean tap out uncoordinated drum rhythms on the steering wheel, or chew at the inside of his cheek; it made Sam count the trees, and fear them--imagine them as some MacBethian hoarde waiting to crawl up to the car, cast off their armor of bark and branches, and reveal themselves as something else to fight. So when the edge of the sky started to light up, they both let out an audible sigh. And when they caught the first glimpse of the ocean a half hour later, unbeknownst to each other, they smiled.  
  
"Do you think it's this warm all year?" Sam asked as he stretched in the parking lot of the little beachfront motel they'd managed to find. His hair ruffled in the breeze coming off the ocean. Dean smirked.  
  
"Why? Looking to start your modeling career?"  
  
"What?" Sam glanced away from the ocean.  
  
"Yeah, you got that eighties Michael Bolton riding a horse on a beach thing going for you, man," Dean grinned. Sam laughed in spite of himself.  
  
"Shut up. Let's get to work."  
  
Dean rolled his eyes, but Sam was already loping towards their room, impatiently tugging his laptop out of his bag before he even reached the door. Dean thumbed out a quick text to Castiel and followed his brother inside.  
  
***  
  
The case wasn't over yet, like they'd been expecting, but it turned out to be a pretty simple fix. They spent the day talking with the locals, researching, looking for lore--working. A hotel chain nearby had recently acquired an older building and begun renovating, and only two weeks in, three construction workers were dead and nearly a dozen had quit. The building, they learned, had previously been a small hospital. The good news was that the haunting deaths and the reports from the other workers were more or less consistent, so it was probably only one or two angry spirits. The bad news was that lots of people die in hospitals, so figuring out which ones had stuck around was a different, laborious story.  
  
The only clue they'd really had was the sound of a baby crying and a woman weeping, as reported by the workers, and the bodies of the three men who'd died all bore needle marks in their arms and had, according to the coroner, died of apparently self-injected morphine overdoses. Sam found a record of a woman who lost her baby just after birth, and in her grief, stole morphine from the nurse's station, hid herself away in a utility closet, and injected herself over and over until she fell asleep and finally died.  
  
It took them most of the day to search the records and then find the burial site, but there were still hours before sunset when they finished salting and burning and wrapped up the case. Getting the early start ended up working out in their favor.  
  
"I was expecting that to be at least a two-day thing," Sam commented from the edge of the mother's grave, watching the fire roar up.  
  
"Yeah," Dean said, tonguing over his teeth. "Free time sounded great before we actually had it. Not sure what to do with it now."  
  
Sam snorted. "You're tellin' me. Heard from Cas yet?"  
  
"Nah," Dean pulled out his phone. "He was farther north, probably still driving. No texts or anything."  
  
"Well--maybe we go get cleaned up? Go find some drinks? And..." Sam checked his watch, then admitted to Dean with a sheepish smile, "There was an antique bookstore we passed I want to check out. There's probably still a couple hours before it closes."  
  
"My God, Sammy," Dean said, letting out a little laugh--he was feeling a bit more like himself. Hunting was helping. "Such a dork."  
  
"Whatever," Sam rolled his eyes. "Let's get out of here."  
  
  
  
The boys arrived back at the motel to find a dark-haired man in a trenchcoat seated on the edge of one of the double-beds in their room, watching some TV program--and, due to shock, nearly shot that man.  
  
"Damnit, Cas," Dean sighed, dropping his pistol to his side. "You couldn't call or something? When'd you get here? How'd you get in?"  
  
"I told the woman at the desk I was helping you with your case," Castiel said. "I still have the badge you gave me. I've been here..." he glanced down at his phone, and continued, "about half an hour."  
  
Sam rolled his eyes, but clapped Cas on the shoulder as he walked past. "Good to see you. I'm grabbing a shower."  
  
"Keys are on the table," Dean called after Sam, but his gaze remained thoughtfully on the angel. Castiel tilted his head at Dean, and the hunter felt his stomach lurch in the best way. Suddenly, he wasn't annoyed anymore. "You ever been to the beach, Cas?"  
  
"Yes," Cas answered, watching as Dean began to strip out of his top two layers of flannel and discard his weapons on the table. "I was on the first beach, and the one your species was born on. Of course, you were still just fish then--quite disgusting, actually, small and gray and--"  
  
"Okay, alright," Dean breathed out a laugh. "I mean since then. You know, for fun."  
  
"Witnessing the birth of humanity was fun," Castiel protested vaguely.  
  
Dean shook his head and rubbed at his eyes, shucking off his shoes. "Alright, come on. Lose the coats and the shoes. Maybe the tie too."  
  
"What are we doing?"  
  
"We're gonna watch the sunset."


	3. Blink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas and Dean share a sunset moment on the beach.

"You might wanna roll up your pants too," Dean suggests as he leads Castiel out onto the motel's porch, off the edge, and into the sand.  
  
Dean hasn't bothered to roll the cuffs of his jeans, but Cas tugs off his socks and tosses them behind, hesitating a few steps behind Dean to do as he's told, tucking the hem of his dress pants up to ball awkwardly around his knees. He jogs a few steps to catch up to the older Winchester, voicing as he nears, "You seem to be doing better."  
  
Dean doesn't stop, but he looks decidedly away from Castiel then. He clears his throat before he speaks. "Yeah, I uhh--it's good to get away. And it's been--forever since I've been to a beach."  
  
Cas presses his lips into a line, and then decides abruptly, "You aren't fine."  
  
"Of course I'm fine," Dean protests, nearing the waterline. He pauses, finally, to cuff his jeans. Mostly to avoid Castiel's gaze.  
But Cas doens't answer. Instead, he turns to watch the sea. It's not quite sunset yet--the sky is only faintly pink, but the ocean is already turning more gold than silver on the horizon. It's warm, but not quite warm enough to swim, and not enough to keep the tourists around. The beach is empty, save for a few wayward umbrellas and some people down the shoreline, too far away to be more than specks. A few lazy, fluffy clouds start to flare orange off to the west.  
  
"It's more beautiful than I remembered," Cas finally speaks, softly, his hands in his pockets. Dean has since straightened and has been staring at the water as well.  
  
"Hard to beat," he answers gruffly and drops down into the sand. He's just close enough to the water that every few waves, the foam tickles up to his ankles, sometimes splashing onto his jeans. Wordlessly, Castiel follows suit, settling in beside him. "Sun'll be gone soon," Dean continues aimlessly. "It always feels like it takes so long for it to start, but once it does, it's over so fast. Blink and you'll miss it."  
  
"Then we won't blink," Cas voices gently, watching the green-eyed Winchester instead of the sea. Tentatively, after a few moments, he voices, "I'm sorry about Mary--about your mother. I know it must be difficult for you, and for Sam." He's expecting anger from Dean--or bitterness--something totally other than what he gets.  
  
"Yeah, man, I don't know," Dean starts, looking anywhere but at Cas. He digs his fingers absently in and out of the sand, making little piles beside him. "Part of me wants to get it. You know? This is--to her, this must be--" he falls short, and shakes his head. "But she's my mom. And I finally had her back, and Sammy finally just _had_ her. I want to get it. But I can't. Maybe that's my own fault."  
  
"It isn't your fault," Cas starts, trying to be helpful. "You have every reason to be hurt. What with your father leaving you, and then Sam, and--"  
  
"Cas--I get it."  
  
Castiel frowns and cringes, gaze leaving the hunter. "I'm just saying; it isn't your fault. You can't carry all burdens all the time, Dean. Though you try."  
  
"When I get another choice, I'll let you know," Dean scowls, tossing a handful of sand sideways. "Just--" he starts, but his voice catches. It takes three attempts and two needless coughs for him to speak without breaking, and even then, his throat still hitches. "Everybody leaves me, man. Everybody leaves _me_."  
  
Cas watches Dean for a long few seconds, and he feels his heart sink--a very human emotion, but one too commonly associated with the Winchesters. "I won't leave you," he finally offers, nearly a whisper. "I never will. Never again."  
  
"Yeah," Dean scoffs, sinking back onto his elbows and glaring at the sky.  
  
"I mean it, Dean," Cas answers, but Dean continues scowling at the encroaching dusk. Cas knows he should let it go, but something about the beach, the crashing waves, the sudden redness flaring across the darkening sky sweeps away his inhibition. "Look at me!" he almost yells, and reaches to grasp Dean on the shoulder, forcing him to face him. Dean's eyes are red-rimmed and wet, but wide with shock. "I will not leave you, Dean Winchester. I--"  
  
Castiel cuts himself off with a huff of breath, breaking his gaze away. It's his turn to glare at the sky. "Blink and you'll miss it," he parrots quietly.  
  
"Cas," Dean mouths. No sound comes out, so he clears his throat and tries again. "Cas?" The angel sighs, but doesn't look over. Dean grits his teeth and presses his lips together. He can feel his stomach twisting, but he needs this, needs Cas. Needs him to be here. He reaches down and winds his fingers over where Castiel's rest in the sand, weaving them together. The angel's gaze darts back up to Dean, and his lips part with shock, but he doesn't resist. Dean manages a tight smile, and quietly answers, "Then we won't blink."  
  
Cas closes his mouth and opens it again. He does this three, maybe four times, before he breaths out of his nose in a long sigh and crumbles. Dean shakes his head at the angel. "Cas, I'm sorry. Stuff is weird right now. I just--"  
  
"I love you," Cas interrupts, staring so hard at Dean he might burn a hole through the other side. The hunter's jaw goes slack. "It's what I was going to say. I won't leave you. I _can't_ leave you. Because I--love you."  
  
"When?" Dean manages after a few moments, voice a whisper. He's still latched on to Castiel's hand in the sand.  
  
"A long time," Castiel admits softly. "Probably since the beginning. I thought, when--well, when I found you after Zachariah, but I knew for sure after Naomi..." he trails off, lifting a shoulder haplessly. Dean is still silent, and Cas pulls his gaze away to stare at the sky--the last tendrils of red and gold sailing over the edge, slipping away into darkness. "We blinked."  
  
"We did," Dean clears his throat when he's finally able to speak again. "Cas, I uhh--we--" he stammers, but falls short, looking from the angel's visage to their still-entwined fingers.  
  
And then Cas pulls away, gently wriggling his fingers free. "I'm sorry. We don't have to speak of this again."  
  
"Cas--wait, no!" Dean scrambles, reaching for Cas's hand as he moves to stand. He catches the angel by the wrist when he's halfway up, bringing the blue-eyed man crashing back down into the sand. His eyes are spilling over, catching the golden light tipping over the horizon, and he whispers desperately, "Don't go. Please don't go."  
  
  
  
It's enough for the angel. Years of silent, stoic love drag him to his knees in the sand, and the way Dean looks in the dying twilight, the way he sounds--it's all too much. His free hand reaches to wind around behind Dean's head, through the hair at the nape of his neck, and he drags the hunter flush, crashing into him with an open, greedy kiss. It's enough for Dean, too; his lips part against the kiss, and he breathes back into the angel's mouth, releasing Cas's wrist to tangle his hands into his dark hair.  
  
"Dean," Cas breaks the kiss to pant out, but Dean shakes his head.  
  
"I said don't go," Dean mutters, crushing himself back into the kiss and rolling with it.  
  
He manages to get to his knees and force Castiel onto his back in the sand to straddle the angel. The darkened sky brings with it a chill from the ocean's breeze, and Dean shivers--the cool waves have soaked his jeans up to the knees--but he can't draw himself from Cas. The angel feels the shiver, and wraps his arms around Dean's back, fingers digging hard into the hunter's t-shirt. And Castiel can't back away either; his lips part for Dean, and even though he should know this man--the man he studied, molecule by molecule, to rebuild him perfectly after Hell--Dean's mouth on his, their tongues dancing and exploring each other--feels new and dangerous and like learning to breathe again.  
  
"Never," Cas gasps to Dean between kisses. "I will never...leave you...never."  
  



	4. Over the Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That moan sends Cas over the edge. Sure, he’s had sex—but only once, and he doesn’t like to count it. That time, with the reaper, feels like a distant nightmare, and he likes to keep it that way. And he’s kissed before—Meg, and Hannah—but none of those quite compare to this, either. Feeling Dean—the man he pulled from hell, the man whose atomic compositions he knows better than his own body— writhe beneath him, hearing him make those sounds, sends him spinning like he’s never been spun before. Like Dean is a hurricane, and loving him is the eye, the calm, fixed center that the whole world rages around.

“ _I won’t leave you,_ ” Cas says again when their lips part long enough for him to focus on getting some leverage in the dampening sand. He digs his elbows into it and lurches to one side, taking Dean with him to get his turn on top.  
  
“You’re a terrible liar, Cas,” says Dean, though he smiles up at the darkening form of the angel poised above him. “C’mere.” He grabs Cas by the lapels of that ill-fitting dress shirt and drags him down, and he can’t help it, but feeling Cas’s firm weight on top of him forces out a small, unbidden, but altogether satisfied moan.  
  
That moan sends Cas over the edge. Sure, he’s had sex—but only once, and he doesn’t like to count it. That time, with the reaper, feels like a distant nightmare, and he likes to keep it that way. And he’s kissed before—Meg, and Hannah—but none of those quite compare to this, either. Feeling Dean—the man he pulled from hell, the man whose atomic compositions he knows better than his own body— writhe beneath him, hearing him make those sounds, sends him spinning like he’s never been spun before. Like Dean is a hurricane, and loving him is the eye, the calm, fixed center that the whole world rages around.  
  
It sends Cas over the edge, and he lets himself fall. If Dean moans, Castiel growls. A desperate sound he barely recognizes as his own curls out of his throat as he pushes his lips against Dean’s, plunging his tongue past them to breathe with the hunter. Cas presses down against him in the sand, capturing Dean’s hands and pinning them to the beach with his own fingers, twining them together.  
“Cas,” Dean starts, but it’s a barely-there, breathless whisper. Cas doesn’t reply; pushes one of his sandy hands up into Dean’s hair.  
  
“Cas,” Dean says again, a bit louder. “Cas!”  
  
Finally, Cas withdraws. He’s out of breath, and he looks down to what he’s sure is a mirror of himself: sandy stubble, swollen lips, and sex hair. “What is it?” he pants.  
“You’re uhh—I’m not an angel,” Dean admits. At Castiel’s apparent confusion, Dean shakes his head and grins, a bit painfully. “Not that I don’t dig a little pain sometimes, but you’re hurting me, man.”  
  
“Oh. Right.” Cas sits upright, still straddling Dean, and releases the fingers still wound into Dean’s hair, and around his other hand. Even in the dark, he can see the way Dean’s hand twitches with the release, and hear how loudly the knuckles pop when Dean cracks them. “I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t—“  
  
“Stop,” Dean says, his voice somehow gentler than Cas has ever heard it. “Don’t be sorry.” The hunter leans up and cradles Cas’s cheek, planting the softest kiss to the angel’s swollen lips. “We should—Sam’s probably wondering…”  
  
“Of course,” says Cas, sighing out the butterflies in his stomach. He rolls off Dean and stands, reaching down to tug the hunter up alongside him. “Are we going to tell him?”  
  
“Hell no,” Dean says, dusting himself off. Even still, he catches the angel in another delicate kiss. “Not yet,” he corrects softly. “Need time to figure it out, okay? This is—it’s new.”  
  
“I understand,” says Cas, but his stomach lurches.  
  
They walk back up to the motel hand in hand anyway.  


*** 

  
  
“We were taking a walk,” Dean says as they step up onto the porch. The windows to the motel glow orange from within. Sam must still be home. “That’s our story.”  
  
“And the sand in your hair?” Cas wonders, releasing Dean’s hand to ruffle some of the particles from his own dark hair.  
  
“Got dark. We tripped on a sandcastle,” Dean shrugs, pushing his fingers back through his hair, now, as well. “Just roll with it.” Castiel nods, and Dean pushes open the door. “Sam?”  
No answer. Dean pads across the room, tracking sand, to check the bathroom. Still no Sam. A too-familiar panic rises in his gut, and he tries to talk himself down—probably just went to get some grub, nothing to freak out over—but he pulls out his phone anyway. Sam knows better by now to leave without so much as a—  
  
“Dean?” Cas interrupts his panic. He’s standing by the table, holding up a motel notepad. “There’s a note. He went to a bookstore, bee-ar-bee.” Cas uses his free hand to air-quote the last words, and suddenly, Dean’s smiling again.  
  
“Oh—right. He mentioned that,” Dean says, releasing the tension from his shoulders. He tosses his phone onto one of the beds and turns for the bathroom. “Alright, I’m gonna get cleaned up. We’re going to a club. When in PCB…”  
  
Dean trails off. Behind him, Castiel is silent. He stands like that for a few seconds, hesitating, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, his back to the angel. He tries to say something two times, then three, and finally he steels himself and turns around to meet a blue-eyed gaze. “D’you wanna—I mean, we could—you could join—“  
  
Castiel’s eyes go wide, and his mouth drops open, and he shifts on his feet, but before he can answer, Dean’s jilted invitation is interrupted by the sound of the front door opening.  
“Oh, hey guys,” says Sam, galumphing into the room none-the-wiser. “How was the beach?”  
  
“It’s a beach,” Dean says, flipping too-quickly into his Devil-may-care façade. “Cas ruined some poor kid’s sandcastle.”  
  
Cas rolls his eyes and sinks into a chair at the table. Sam smirks, but continues, “Awesome. So, I found this book—The Encyclopedia of Angels.” He strides over and seats himself opposite Cas, tugging out a book and immediately beginning to flip through the pages of a worn, obviously used book. “You’re in here, dude,” he says to the angel, stopping on a page and pushing the book across to Cas. “Did you know you technically own Saturn?”  
  
“You’re such a—wait, seriously? He owns a planet?” Dean starts to Sam, but flips quickly to Cas. “You never told me you own a planet.”  
  
“Only in certain Jewish traditions,” Cas explains calmly, peering over the book. “And this,” he pokes his finger at a bit of writing,” is incorrect. “My true form is not blue. Nor do I ride a dragon. Why would they think a celestial being requires a dragon for transportation?”  
  
“Huh,” says Dean, and his eyes linger a bit too long on Cas. Sam notices, and furrows his brows. Dean deflects. “Whatever. Look sharp, Sammy. See if we have anything Cas can borrow besides the holy tax accountant getup.”  
  
“Uhh—okay. What for?” Sam asks.  
  
“Because,” says Dean, adorning a shit-eating grin as he turns back for the bathroom. “We’re going clubbing.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated, at long last! Short chapter 4. Much longer chapter 5 on the way!


	5. The Closet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean, Cas, and Sam get ready to go clubbing. Cas and Dean deal with their feelings--kindof.

“Wait, this says you’re the angel of Saturday? I thought it was Thursday,” said Sam, still skimming the pages of his angel book.  
  
“No, that’s one of my brothers. Kafziel,” answered Cas. He shrugged. “There are thousands of us, and Enochian is a limited language. Which is strange, because—”  
  
The conversation fell off quickly as Dean closed the bathroom door behind him, the muffled, unintelligible voices of his brother and the angel dimming into garbled background noise. He locked the door and started the shower, letting the small room fog up around him. He leaned over to grip the sides of the sink and stared at himself in the mirror, watching his features slowly muddle in the clinging steam.  
  
“The hell are you doing, Winchester,” Dean asked his reflection, more a resignation than a question. He stared until his face was nothing but a flesh-colored blur in the mirror, and only then released the edges of the sink, realizing he’d been holding so tightly his knuckles had gone white. Absently, he stripped and tossed his clothes into a corner, grabbed a towel off the shelf, and stepped beneath the water’s stinging heat. Showers always helped him think, but this one was different. It was easier to deal with monsters—formulate a plan of attack, imagine the scene playing out on the shower’s blank wall, use the tile grids as a makeshift layout of city streets to map out the exits. But Castiel wasn’t a battle to be won. He wasn’t a fight.  
  
Or maybe he was.  
  
Dean scrubbed the sand from his hair and body, quickly, methodically. This is just like anything else, he reasoned to himself. Strategize. Come up with a plan of attack. How do I approach this? Step one, he decided, don’t let Sammy know. Not yet. Act cool. Don’t freak out. Don’t think about kissing Cas. Don’t— Dean cut his thoughts off as a ripple of heat that had nothing to do with the shower ran through his body. He grimaced when he felt his stomach lurch, the same way it had when Cas had pinned him in the sand, felt the angel’s hunger—and Dean cringed more deeply still when he felt himself getting turned on.  
  
“Shut up,” he muttered to his thoughts, immediately reaching behind him to turn the shower all the way cold. The sudden change made him shiver, but did the trick and cleared his mind, set it back on track: Step one, his thoughts repeated, punctuated by his now-chattering teeth. Don’t let Sammy know.  
  
* * *  
  
Dean stepped out in a towel—he’d failed to grab clean clothes in his rush to remove himself from Castiel’s presence, lest Sam note the nervous way he and the angel moved. He was pleased to hear they were still talking angelic lore and history. Castiel, for his part, was busy giving an enraptured Sam the real version of the Noah’s Ark story.  
  
“…but it wasn’t actually that deep, by your standards today. Still devastating, obviously, especially without your modern infrastructures,” Castiel said, though his words briefly caught in his throat when Dean emerged shirtless, blue eyes widening. He picked himself back up quickly enough, though, to shrug at Sam, “it was mostly just that the climate was so dry it couldn’t absorb the water quickly enough. And of course, it wasn’t actually the whole world. It was just the only world they knew. It only covered what’s now Iraq, and parts of Iran and Saudi Arabia.”  
  
“You guys are nerds,” Dean scoffed, digging around in his duffel bag with the hand not holding up the towel. “We’re about to go party and you’re talking about the Bible? Come on. It’s like you want to feel guilty about having fun.”  
  
“Well you take long showers,” Sam answered, rolling his eyes.  
  
“Whatever,” said Dean, returning to the bathroom with an armful of clothes. “Get changed if you’re gonna.”  
  
Dean disappeared behind the closed door and Sam turned to Cas. “Did you want a shower? I’m good, but he might be a while.”  
  
“No,” said Cas, trailing his eyes to the bathroom door. “I can clean myself the same way I can heal wounds.”  
  
Sam’s eyebrows lifted, but he simply shrugged. “Cool,” he said, heading over to the dresser where his bag, and Dean’s, were carelessly slung. “I bet you can fit into either of our shirts, but you’ll probably need Dean’s jeans,” he said. “You’re about the same height.”  
  
“Oh, I’m perfectly comfortable in this,” Castiel said, glancing down at his typical outfit, sans coats.  
  
Sam gave Cas a glance and snorted, smirking. “No offense, Cas, but uh…you’d stand out. In a sortof…creepy way.”  
  
“Oh,” said Cas, looking down again, brows knitting. “What does one wear to a club, then?”  
  
“We’re not the most fashionable people,” Sam admitted, returning to his digging through the bags, “but we’ve got you covered.” He set a couple pairs of jeans out on the dresser, and tugged out a few tightly-rolled shirts, all of them black. “Here,” he gestured, stepping back. “Something out of that should work. Just uhh—take your pick. I’ll let you get changed.”  
  
Castiel nodded and watched as Sam’s back disappeared out onto the sidewalk. He swallowed, glanced at the still-closed bathroom door, and started picking through the clothes Sam left out.  
  
* * *  
  
Meanwhile, on the other side of the bathroom door, Dean was already fully dressed in dark blue, slim-cut jeans and a gray, fitted Henley, but doing what he accused Sam of time and time again: obsessing over his hair. He never spent a lot of time on it, but liked to think he managed to keep it nice enough. It was nerves, he decided. Ordinarily, he’d have just gone out to the bars and picked up whatever chicks he could, but tonight was different; he couldn’t just go hit on girls after what happened earlier with Cas, but he couldn’t draw Sam’s suspicion either, and that nervous energy had manifested in Dean brushing his teeth three times, alternating constantly between rolling his sleeves up or leaving them down, and now, manipulating his hair to death.  
  
“Ahh, fuck it,” he finally said, scooping out some gel and styling it the way he always did, just a bit looser, figuring messier spikes would look nonchalant—like he hadn’t just spent twenty minutes freaking out about it. “Get it together, man,” he breathed to himself, finally decided on rolled-up sleeves, and jerked the bathroom door open.  
  
The noise made Castiel stop in his tracks, and the sight of the angel did the same to Dean. Cas was clothed from the waist down, holding a black shirt in each hand, but Dean’s jeans—another dark-washed pair, were tight on the angel, whose thick legs were usually hidden beneath his loose slacks. Dean’s heart stuttered as his gaze swept over Cas, his thighs, his bare chest—before he cleared his throat and shook his head, moving to sit on his bed and tug on his shoes.  
  
“Is something wrong?” Cas said, arbitrarily picking one of the shirts to pull it over his head, ruffling his dark hair.  
  
“No, you just—” Dean started carefully, sitting up. “It’s uhh—weird. Not seeing you in the trench coat. You look good,” he nodded gruffly, and, he hoped, heterosexually. “Nice shirt choice.”  
“Thank you,” said Cas, glancing down at the tight-fitting, faded black Zeppelin tee. “It is more freeing than my typical attire.”  
  
Dean snorted, and settled back into a more normal rhythm with Castiel’s familiar answer. “No, really. It suits you,” he said, considering, and then mumbled, “Hey, c’mere,” as he stood and went to the closet. Cas followed, lingering close behind the hunter. “Where’s Sam?” Dean asked, thumbing through a few of the coats and flannels on hangers.  
  
“He stepped outside to give me privacy to change,” Cas answered easily.  
  
“Good,” Dean breathed, tensely. He shoved the whole rack hangers to one side and turned around to wind an arm around Castiel’s back, pulling him into a hard kiss. They fell backwards into the shallow closet, Dean’s back connecting with the wall with a low thump.  
  
For his part, Castiel had frozen, taken off guard, but the sound of Dean hitting the wall returned him to the moment. He kissed Dean back more gently, tentatively, though when Dean’s other arm wrapped around his back, Castiel let the hunter’s passion work his mouth open. He pressed Dean harder into the back of the dark closet, bracing himself with one palm splayed on the wall beside Dean’s head, the other finally settling for gripping Dean’s hipbone. He wasn’t certain how this was supposed to go, so he followed Dean’s lead and deepened the kiss until they were both panting, unsure who each breath belonged to.  
  
Dean’s hands snuck down instinctively and slipped into the back pockets of Castiel’s jeans. His spine curved forward with need, his hips rocking up against Castiel’s. He was using the leverage of those pockets to pull the angel impossibly closer when realization struck him: he was making out, with a dude, with his hands on that dude’s ass. He must have gone suddenly still, because Castiel backed up, eyes flashing even in the dark.  
  
“Dean?” Cas questioned, panting, but he couldn’t stop himself: his other hand lifted to press against the wall on the other side of Dean’s head, and he remembered, vaguely, a movie scene the scribe of God had long ago imparted to him of a jock, standing like this over a cheerleader who was pushed up against a locker. Without really meaning to, he leaned forward and kissed Dean again, and again, and a third time, desperately trying to pull the hunter back into a breathless, frenzied need.  
  
It worked for a moment; he coaxed Dean’s lips back apart, trying to mimic what Dean had done earlier. Cas pulled Dean’s lower lip between his teeth, grazed it before licking into his mouth with a needy, lovestruck moan, drawing a similar, satisfying noise from somewhere deep within Dean’s chest. Castiel’s sternum vibrated with it, and he was just pushing a hand into Dean’s hair when the hunter froze up again. Breathless, Castiel retreated, asking again through swollen lips, “Dean? What’s wrong?”  
  
“It’s fine,” Dean blurted.  
  
“Are you?”  
  
“I’m fine,” Dean reiterated, giving Cas a gentle nudge. Cas backed out of the closet, and Dean could see the shock on his face, the subtle, concealed hurt, the kiss-reddened lips. “It’s nothing. Just—Sam,” Dean lied.  
  
“Sam,” Castiel agreed softly, running his hands through his own dark hair, making it stand up even more. “And that my vessel is male.”  
“That’s not what I—”  
  
“It’s what you were thinking,” Cas said simply.  
  
“You read minds now?”  
  
“No. But do you think I don’t know you?”  
  
Dean blanched at that, flinching. “It’s not like that, Cas. It’s not—it’s—”  
  
“New?”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean answered softly, refusing to meet Castiel’s gaze. “New. I’m not saying—look, I’m not—”  
  
“This isn’t just a vessel anymore, Dean,” Castiel said quietly, backing up until he was seated on the bed. “I could find another, true, but…this is me. I live here now, in this body. _My_ body. If it’s an issue, we don’t have to—”  
  
“Damnit, Cas, that’s not what I mean,” Dean huffed, still leaning against the closet wall. He was thankful for the dark of it, the relative anonymity it offered. “It’s not you. I just need time. Okay? That’s all. I—” he swallowed, and hoped Castiel couldn’t see him squint and grimace with the pain of speaking truth: “I love you too. I love you, okay? Just—it’s new.”  
  
A smile graced Castiel’s lips, and Dean opened his eyes just in time to catch the small flash of it. “Alright,” he agreed. They stayed in silence like that for a few minutes, Dean staring at Cas from the closet, Cas watching from the bed. Sam interrupted their game of eye-chicken as he returned.  
  
“Hey, sorry. Got into this book,” he admitted, tossing it to the table. He glanced around, then asked Cas, “Where’s Dean?”  
  
“In the closet,” Castiel answered simply.  
  
Sam snorted. “What? Is that a metaphor?”  
  
“No, I’m getting a jacket,” Dean muttered from the closet, stepping out holding a black leather jacket. “Bitch.”  
  
“Whatever,” Sam rolled his eyes. “That’s mine,” he added, and stripped out of his outer layer of flannel, apparently content to hit the bar in a white v-neck and jeans.  
  
“Yeah, well, it’ll make Cas look like a badass,” he shrugged. “So he’s borrowing it.”  
  
“Okay,” Sam shrugged, combing his hair with his fingers. “So where we going?”  
  
“La Vela,” Dean grinned, carefully keeping his gaze from Castiel. “It’s famous.”  
  
“We’re in the off-season,” Sam reminded, glancing over at his brother.  
  
“La Vela doesn’t have an off season,” said Dean. He tossed the leather jacket to Castiel, who pushed his arms into it quickly. When he stood, the sight of him made Dean’s stomach lurch again like it had in the shower. He swallowed the need to taste Castiel’s mouth, instead striking out for the door with a simple, gruff, “C’mon, ladies. The night’s young, but we ain’t.”


	6. Neon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: homophobic language
> 
> Also, I write to music, & had club hits on shuffle if you want to vibe with it!

After a small scuffle about whether or not Dean should drive (“You always say you’ll be fine and end up too drunk to drive and sleep in the back seat, Dean!” “I do not!” “Dean, Sam isn’t wrong…”), the elder hunter finally conceded to the idea of taking a cab. The motel was just a bit too far to be walkable to the club, and to save money, the three men squished uncomfortably into the back of a taxi. Dean didn’t mind too much, though; Cas, just barely the shortest, was forced into the middle, and in the dark the proximity made it easy for Dean to surreptitiously hold his hand. 

“This place is huge, Dude,” said Sam as the cab pulled into a parking lot. “Are you sure you want to go here? It’s not your normal vibe.” Though it really was the off-season, a thumping bass and neon lights still leaked from sprawling club into the mild evening air. A line of at least twenty people were waiting to get in. 

“You don’t know what I do,” Dean scoffed, thumbing over some cash to the driver as they scooted out of the car. “You think I only pick up chicks at dives? Rookie move, Sammy.”

Sam snorted. “You don’t think I can party?”

“Can you?” Dean challenged. 

“I went to college,” Sam answered.

“What does that mean?” Cas interrupted. He’d been squinting between the brothers, attempting to make sense of their feud. “What does higher education have to do with parties?”

“Oh, Cas,” Dean smirked, clapping the angel’s leather-clad shoulder. “You’re gonna have a blast tonight.”

“I bet Cas can hang,” Sam mused as they struck out across the parking lot. “Hey, Cas—didn’t you once say you drank a whole liquor store?”

“I did,” said Castiel. “Though that was before I—before the angels fell.”

A pang of guilt hit Dean in the chest and he squeezed Castiel’s shoulder before letting his hand drop. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s cheaper to get drunk when you’re human…ish.”

Despite the line’s length, it moved quickly; while they waited, Sam did his best to explain the college-party correlation to Cas, with Dean interjecting bits of his own club-knowledge as proof that he knew about more than dive bars and classic rock. 

“I even dance,” Dean beamed as they approached the bouncer, forking over enough bills for the cover. 

“You hate dancing,” Sam interjected, flashing his I.D. before following Dean and Cas inside. 

“This is dancing for a _purpose,_ Sammy,” Dean called over his shoulder. Sam rolled his eyes. 

Dean wrenched open the heavy, black door, and as he did, the music that had been a dull thrum came pouring out with heavy, wild bass and synthesizers and a woman singing some electro-dance-version of a pop hit. Cas looked positively shell-shocked, and Dean had to stop himself from smiling like a lovestruck idiot, lest Sam notice the affection. He swung an arm around Castiel’s shoulder—brotherly—and guided him inside, Sam on their heels. 

The dark club was packed with people—most of them out in the middle of a huge dance floor in front of a low stage, where a DJ was practically glowing in all the black light. Lazer-beams of neon flashed with the beat across the darkness, and every now and then, a strobe-light would pulse, making the dancing crowd appear to suddenly move backwards, or in slow motion. 

“Let’s get drinks,” Dean yelled over the thumping bass, waving Cas and Sam to follow to the pink-lit bar. “Shots? Shots,” he asked, and then decided for his brother and the angel. He leaned across the bar and yelled, “Three shots of uhh…vodka. Each,” to the bartender—and made a show, for Sam, of giving her his flirting-face. She smiled and turned around to start pouring, and Dean slid one of his fake credit cards across the top. He glanced up to smile at Cas, though it faltered; the angel looked hurt, and Dean immediately knew it was from the flirting. 

A moment later, though, nine shots were lined up before them, and Dean passed them out to the two. “Bottoms up,” he announced, toasting, and then taking each of his shots in such quick succession he may as well have been drinking water. Sam made a face, but downed them, and Cas followed suit. When the angel looked unbothered, though, Dean turned around and blurted, “Four more,” then passed three of those to Cas, saving one for himself. Cas obliged, and when the shots were gone (to Sam’s great amusement), he waved them off to the dance floor. “C’mon, boys. The ladies are waiting.” Sam rolled his eyes, but followed his brother and the angel nonetheless. 

“Oh god, Bieber,” Dean lamented as they weaved through the dancing, neon-lit bodies, as the DJ started spinning a dance-heavy version of _Despacito_.

“How do you know it’s Bieber?” Sam yelled over the noise, grinning. 

“Shut up!” Dean answered.

“What?” said Sam, squinting.

“He said ‘shut up,’” yelled Cas. 

“What?” yelled Dean, and then simply shook his head, waving the trio deeper into the center of the crowd. 

Almost immediately, a blonde woman in a metallic bikini top and denim skirt squished her way into their space, rounding on Sam. Dean’s eyebrows shot up as she motioned his brother down to say something in his ear. Sam smiled and nodded to her, then bragged to Dean and Cas, “Looks like I’m going to dance. And, get this: her friends have bottle service. I win.”

“Get outta here, Sammy,” Dean yelled, waving him off, and Sam smirked, disappearing into the crowd behind the woman. “It’s just ‘cause he’s freakishly tall. Girls like—” he yelled over to Cas, turning to face the angel, and his voice caught in his throat. His mouth fell open unbidden, and he knew he was staring, but he couldn’t stop himself. 

Cas was standing there looking better than anyone should be allowed to, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. The light in the club had shifted into blue, and it glinted off the black leather and Castiel’s dark, messy hair. It made the angel’s already impossibly blue eyes look wide and otherworldly. Dean was suddenly reminded of the first moment he met the angel, with the world raining sparks around him; even back then, something in him had declared Cas the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. The way Cas looked now, bathed in neon, was giving that memory a run for its money.

Castiel stared back, tilted his head. “Dean?” he said, and Dean knew it, though the sound didn’t carry.

“You look—” Dean said softly, though he knew Castiel heard. His heart hammered in his chest, and it only lurched harder with the angel’s head tilt, and the narrowing of those impossible eyes. 

“Are you—” Castiel began, though he was cut off by a woman grabbing his arm. 

“D’you want to dance?” she slurred over the music, sloshing a bit of her drink.

Dean had to admit, she was hot; but so was everyone in the tourist part of Florida. He didn’t know if it was all the sun, or the alcohol, or the fact that people were just half-naked all the time, but it seemed everywhere he looked there was an unreasonably gorgeous woman. Anyway, Dean had fully expected Castiel to say no—which is why he was rendered speechless when Cas obliged her with a tight smile, taking her hand and letting her lead him into the throbbing crowd. 

Dean watched his angel move a few feet away, placing a handful of dancing twenty-somethings between them, as they joined up with a group—the woman’s friends, he guessed. He tried not to be jealous; Cas was nothing if not polite, and socially awkward to boot—and on some level, Dean was even kindof proud of the guy—until the woman started dancing. Not just dancing—grinding—on Castiel. He tried to shove the emotion down and wrenched his gaze away, finding someone of his own to dance with rather quickly. 

A dark-haired woman with light eyes approached him with a come-hither look, and Dean didn’t hesitate to put his hands on her waist and sway with her body while she rolled her hips. Any other day, he would’ve been into this—but he kept looking over the crowd to Cas, where the angel had picked up how to dance back, and was holding to his dance partner’s grinding hips. Suddenly, a hand was on Dean’s jaw, and he found his gaze pulled back down to the woman he was dancing with, her features vaguely irritated. Dean gave her a small, apologetic smile, and tried to get back into it, but found himself looking ever toward the angel. 

Finally, two songs later, the woman gave up. She pushed Dean away and flipped him off, but Dean didn’t notice. The moment she released him, he began forcing his way through the crowd to Castiel. 

“Hi, sorry, I need my buddy,” Dean announced over the music, grabbing Castiel’s elbow and interrupting their dance sharply. 

“Uh..okay?” the woman answered, squinting between the men. She opened her mouth to say something else, but cut herself off when a song started ( _I don’t wanna fight right now_ ) and she turned to yell to her squealing friends, “Ohmygod, Halsey! This is my song!” and disappeared into her group. 

“What’s wrong?” Castiel yelled as Dean dragged him further away, still well within the confines of the dance floor, but out of sight of the women they’d danced with, and further from Sam. 

“Nothing, I just—” Dean yelled, unconvincingly, and took a deep breath. He reached to take Castiel’s hand and tentatively pulled it to place it on the small of his own back, stepping into the angel’s personal space.

Castiel’s eyes went wide and his lips parted, and Dean gave an awkward smirk. He shook his head, then released Cas’s arm, instead sliding his own around the angel’s back, the other lifting, hesitantly, to the back of his neck. 

“Is this okay?” Dean asked, and Cas answered by pulling Dean sinfully close. 

Dean caught his breath after a moment and leaned his forehead down against Castiel’s, and though neither of them knew what they were doing, they began to sway—not even really keeping time with the beat. Cas hadn’t stopped staring, and Dean was pretty sure (like, 65%) that angels didn’t need to breathe, but he could feel Castiel’s warm breath against his own lips. It was only then that Dean realized he hadn’t stopped staring either. His heart was doing backflips in his chest; it was like his entire nervous system was lit up in Castiel-blue, and no other color would ever compare again. Dean finally broke his gaze away to glance over the angel’s shoulder.

Behind them, the sea of people began to thin out to the edges of the dance floor. There was another bar—this one lit up in purple instead of pink—and a dark hallway above which hung a neon _Bathrooms_ sign. Dean usually needed more than four shots to get drunk, and on some level he knew this, but he thought to himself that at least it maybe gave him courage. He looked back up to Castiel’s curious gaze and gave the angel a nudge. They stepped backwards together for a moment before Dean grew impatient and grabbed Castiel’s hand, leading them off the dance floor and into the hallway. 

“Dean, what—” Castiel began, voice still nearly a yell over the thrumming music, but he was cut short.

Dean grabbed the lapels of Castiel’s jacket and backed him, hard, into the wall. Before Cas could catch his breath, and before Dean could think himself out of the feeling, he shoved forward to press against Cas, pushing their lips together with frenzied desperation. 

Castiel kissed back, stunned and slowly, but his hands came to hold Dean close against him by the back of his shirt near his hips. And once the shock wore off, it was Cas, this time, who worked Dean’s mouth open to deepen the kiss. One of them growled low in their throat, and with the vibrations of the club’s bass rattling through them, neither could tell who it had come from. They were forgetting themselves to each other, the spell almost totally cast, until a gruff voice pulled them both back to their surroundings. 

“Hey, faggots,” a large man in a black SECURITY t-shirt rumbled to the pair lip-locked against the wall. “The gay bar’s down the street at the corner of Fuck Off and Get The Fuck Out.”


	7. Power Play

Dean pulled his lips from Castiel to stare daggers at whoever had dared to interrupt them, though he didn’t immediately let go of Cas’s jacket. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” said the bouncer. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Cut the shit or get out.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean let go of Cas, and adopted his shit-eating grin and swagger stance. “I thought we lived in America, where I’m allowed to do whatever the hell I want.”

“And in America, we have private property, which can also do whatever the hell it wants, asshole,” the bouncer replied. “I’m not going to ask again.”

Dean snorted. “Oh, you’re asking?”

“Dean, it’s not worth it.” Castiel spoke up, lowly. He touched Dean on the shoulder, but Dean shook it off. 

“Listen to your boyfriend,” the bouncer said, squaring up. He had a few inches and fifty pounds on Dean, at least. “I don’t like hitting women, but I’ll make an exception.”

Dean made a show of sizing the bouncer up, lingering obviously on his crotch a moment before grinning, taunting, “I’ve seen bigger.”

“I bet you have,” the bouncer growled. He reached out to grab Dean by the shoulder. 

“Bad move,” Dean said, and threw a punch that landed solidly against the bouncer’s nose, who stumbled backwards and landed heavily on his ass. 

“You little shit,” he began, “I’m gonna—” but was cut off.

In an instant, Castiel was on one knee beside him. “Go to sleep,” he commanded, blue eyes flashing furiously, and placed two fingers on the bouncer’s broad forehead. The man’s eyes rolled back into his head, and he fell back the rest of the way, fully unconscious. 

Dean blinked, and opened his mouth to say something, but a girl on the perimeter of the dance floor shrieked and pointed at him and his knuckles, coated with blood from the bouncer’s broken nose. He glanced up just in time to see three more security guards leaving their posts and making their way through the crowd towards him and Cas. 

“Yeah, we should go,” Dean muttered, pulling up Cas by an arm and directing him down the hallway, where a red _Emergency Exit_ sign glowed faintly in the dark. Cas obliged silently, tailing Dean out the door as he shouldered it open into an ugly, badly-lit side parking lot, littered with old beer cans and fast food wrappers. They looped around the side of the building and disappeared into the dark where the pavement began to meet coastline, the club a muffled thrumming behind them.

“What an asshole,” Dean said, finally, shaking out his bloody hand and peering back at the club. “And you,” he turned to Cas, grinning, “You’re a badass, Cas. ‘Go to sleep?’ You’re getting good at the trash talk, man.”

“Thank you,” Cas said blandly, though a little grin tugged at his lips. It quickly morphed back into confusion, though, as he glanced over at the club looming in the distance. “I’ll never understand that side of humans. The absurdity of the things they choose to hate.”

“You and me both,” said Dean, watching Cas. He cleared his throat and reached out to tentatively snag the angel’s nearest hand. “Sorry that happened. I wish it hadn’t.”

“You didn’t deny it,” Cas answered. He linked his fingers easily through Dean’s, though his eyes bore intently into the hunter’s.

Dean’s heart leapt into his throat. “Deny what?”

“That we were—that word he called us, however derogatory.”

“Oh. I mean, yeah, dudes like that? They don’t care what you say. No point arguing.”

“So you agree?”

“What? No, Cas, we’re not—”

“Dean. I’m utterly indifferent to things as trivial as gender or sexual orientation.”

“Damnit, Cas, that’s not—I’m not—”

“Gay?” Cas leveled, and Dean’s features went blank and red. The angel signed. “I know. We both know it isn’t that simple. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: stop making things needlessly complicated as you humans tend to do.”

“But this is complicated, Cas,” Dean said, sighing. He kicked a pebble across the ground. “C’mon. Let’s just—can we at least just go somewhere?”

“Alright,” said Castiel simply. 

“Great,” said Dean, and extricated his hand from Castiel’s to dial a cab. 

*

The ride back to the hotel was one long, awkward silence. The cab driver tried to make small talk, and Dean responded with one-word answers until he gave up and let quiet overtake the car. Dean texted Sam to let him know they left after a fight, that everything was fine, to enjoy himself. Sam sent back a reply that Dean understood meant he was probably going to get lucky: _Okay. Don’t wait up._

And to be fair, the night was still relatively young as far as weekends at bars go; it was barely pushing midnight, and when Sam and Dean partied, they tended to go until the sun came up. When they made it back to their room, Dean finally spoke. 

“Sorry the night turned to shit, Cas. I was hoping to show you a good time.”

“I did have a good time,” Cas answered softly. 

“Well, no, I just meant—” Dean turned around to toss his keys to the table, but was met with Cas, inches away. 

Cas tilted his head, and Dean’s heart lurched. “Did you not enjoy yourself?”

“I—no, I did,” Dean breathed, taking a half step backwards. Cas grabbed him by the wrist. 

“You know,” he began, advancing slowly on Dean, one eyebrow arching domineeringly, “I might be short my wings, but I am still an angel.”

“I know that,” Dean gulped, backing up further still at Castiel’s insistence. He stopped when the back of his thighs hit something solid, and he stumbled into a seat on the bed. 

“Do you?” Castiel challenged, obviously pleased with himself. “Not many with your knowledge of what I am would be brave enough to pin me to a wall.”

Understanding suddenly lit up Dean’s brain. Cas wasn’t mad: this was a game. A power play. And Cas had won the first round on the beach. Dean had taken rounds two and three, and Castiel was finally coming to reclaim his dominance. He smirked up at the angel and leaned back onto his elbows. “And?”

Faster than his brain could process, Dean was lifted from the bed and backed suddenly against the wall, connecting so hard an ugly hotel painting rattled on its hook. Before he could catch his breath, Cas sucked it away in a hard, bruising kiss, his fingers digging ravines into Dean’s shoulders. One of those hands reached up, as if unbidden, to land on Dean’s throat—gentle, at first, but as the kiss deepened, so did Castiel’s grip. Dean wasn’t one to back down from rough love, but Cas was losing himself again, and Dean could feel his breath choking out. He broke the kiss and opened his eyes out of instinctual self-preservation, only to discover this wasn’t accidental—Castiel was staring him down intensely, blue eyes wild with fiery grace, his grip not loosening. 

“Cas,” Dean tried to croak, reaching up to grab Castiel’s nearest wrist. That seemed to satisfy something strange in Cas, and he let go. Dean saw stars as the air rushed back into his lungs. “What the hell, man?” he gasped out, leaning down to put his hands on his knees, let the blood return to his spinning head. 

“You,” Cas began, pacing away. He was almost visibly seething, and Dean noticed his balled fists, shaking at his sides. “Are the most _infuriating_ , stubborn, emotionally stunted being I have _ever_ known. And I know angels. We’re not even _supposed_ to feel, and yet—” he paused, steadying himself, and let out a low breath. He finally turned to face Dean again, and the hunter recognized pain, not anger, lining the angel’s features. “And I chose this. This! For you! Do you know what I’ve given up for you? Who I’ve betrayed? I’ve _died_ for you, and—don’t give me that look—I pulled you out of Hell because I _wanted_ to, Dean. Any other angel, stronger ones, could have taken on that fight. But I saw your soul and I asked—I _begged_ God to let me be the one. Before I even knew you, I—and you can’t stow your pride and just—”

Castiel cut himself off with a harsh sigh and turned around. He ran an irritated hand through his hair, mussing it even more. 

“Cas…” Dean said softly. It felt like there was still a hand around his throat. Slowly, he took the two steps to where Castiel was standing, back to him. He reached to place a hand on the angel’s shoulder to gently urge him to be face-to-face. “Cas, I—I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Bullshit you didn’t,” Cas spat, though he allowed himself to be turned, to look at Dean.

“Not the details,” Dean protested quietly. 

“I’m not talking about the details,” Cas answered tersely. “I’m talking about the fact—the _obvious_ fact—that I love you. That I have always loved you. And you know it.”

“I—I wondered, but I—” Dean gulped. Suddenly he couldn’t meet the angel’s gaze.

“You can’t love me back,” Cas answered simply. Emotion drained slowly from his features. “I know you’ve tried. But this—” he swung his hand between them, “this thing that’s happening between us this weekend? It’s not a game to me. It isn’t for fun. Humans, you can—you can maneuver feeling far better than I can. But I am _immense_ , Dean, and very old, and have never known anything like this. And I’m not going to indulge it any longer if you’re not in it with me. Because it hurts.”

Dean stared at Castiel, open-mouthed, gaping. His eyes grew red and watery, though nothing spilled over. He swallowed hard, and when he finally spoke, it was a cracked, pitiful sound. “It is not like that. It has never been like that.”

“Then what is it like?”

“It’s like I love you, too, and I don’t know how,” Dean growled through his teeth. “Okay? I ain’t lookin’ for pity, but come on, man. You’ve gotta know this is—it’s new for me. And I’m terrified. Is that what you want to hear? I am _terrified_ , Cas. I want this. I’ve wanted it for a long damn time. But I’m figuring out how.”

Castiel’s eyes burned into Dean, his jaw set. He stayed like this, unbreathing, unblinking, unmoving, for longer than a human could, and Dean could feel himself withering beneath that icy gaze. Maybe Cas sensed this, because just when Dean was sure the angel was going to reach inside him and strangle his soul, he sighed and let his mask of impassivity fall away. He stepped away from Dean and shrugged out of the jacket and his shoes, then his socks, leaving them where they fell. He rolled up the cuffs of his jeans, the way Dean had showed him earlier, and padded to the door, opening it to the cool night outside. The sounds of night birds and softly-rumbling waves pushed in on the breeze.

“Come with me,” Cas commanded gently. “I want to show you something.”


	8. Starsickness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long chapter with some *~*classy*~* smut bc I'm low key a lil bit afraid of man parts & struggle writing those words 
> 
> *throws lesbian-leaning-bisexual glitter*
> 
> \------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dean remained where he was, stiff-legged and slack-jawed, staring at Castiel. 

The angel tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the hunter before asking, gently, “…Dean?”

“Yeah—okay,” Dean answered around what sounded like a ball in his throat. He followed suit mechanically, stripping out of his socks and shoes and cuffing his jeans. Castiel held the door open for him, and he awkwardly shuffled out into the dark, which only got darker as Cas pulled the door closed behind them, shutting out the hotel’s light. 

Castiel didn’t speak all the way down to the water, and in the sand, even Dean’s footfalls were silent behind him. Finally, at the shore’s edge, Cas simply took a seat. The tide came in just enough to tickle the ends of his bare toes every now and then, and he wrapped his arms loosely, comfortably, around his knees. The moon wasn’t full, but it was a clear night, and its brightness softened the early morning darkness like a spotlight inside a cloud. Dean settled quietly beside Cas, adopting the same bent-knee position. He watched Cas while Cas stared out over the black expanse of ocean. 

“What do you see?” he finally asked Dean, without breaking his eyes from the sea. 

Dean turned his gaze to the ocean, squinting, trying to find the horizon. Even with the light of the moon, the darkness overwhelmed it. He shook his head. “I don’t know. The water. Sky. City off that way.”

“Can you see the horizon?” Cas asked.

“No. It’s too dark.”

“I used to be able to see it,” Cas answered softly, and tilted his chin just vaguely upwards. “I could see the curvature of the Earth. Every star in this galaxy, and a few beyond it. Even during the day, the sky to me was never empty.”

“But you can’t now?” Dean wondered quietly, gaze shifting back to Cas. “Why?”

“You,” Cas said simply. He leveled his eyes at Dean, who seemed to shrink beneath them. When the hunter didn’t speak, he turned back to gazing, with a sigh. “I can still see some things if I focus. I don’t know for sure how much more it is than you see, though. I can show you. If that’s alright?”

Dean didn’t speak, but closed his mouth—he hadn’t realized it was open—and watched as Castiel lifted two fingers towards his temple. Just before the touch came, Castiel said softly, “Look up,” and Dean did. 

Something bright and blue surged through his brain, almost blinding, but after the flash the sky looked full and heavy, like someone had spilled silver glitter on wet, black pavement. But it wasn’t still; it was almost, _almost_ as if he could see the gravity-slung arcs of the stars, moving impossibly fast through something that no longer seemed like a void. Unbidden, Dean’s mouth fell open again as he watched the heavens wheeling overhead, suddenly alive—and somehow, though it had always seemed infinite, larger. In an instant, he felt smaller than small—microscopic—less than an atom. A tear stole away from his eye, and then the wonder was too much: all those circles within circles, the stars moving so quickly they could have been TV static. He felt his cheeks go into a cold sweat. Dean’s stomach lurched in a nauseating flop, and he rocked forwards instinctively, dislodging Castiel’s fingers to throw his head between his knees. 

“Dean?”

“Ugh,” he panted as the universe came to a screeching, jarring halt. “Sec.”

Castiel frowned. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to overwhelm you.”

“Just uhh—” Dean swallowed. “Cosmic-level motion sickness.” He closed his eyes, and he could still see traces of the movement of stars behind his eyelids. But the breeze that came in off the ocean now was cool and soothing, and Dean let out a stabilizing breath as he lifted his head to let it brush across his face. When he was able to speak, he admitted softly, “It’s beautiful. But it’s a lot.”

“It’s less than what I used to see.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Sometimes.”

Dean let out another long, slow breath and opened his eyes, grateful when the scene before him was still, save for the low splash of waves. The normalcy, though, let emotion back in—and realization hit him with such force it almost made him sick again. “That’s what you meant.”

Cas was silent. 

“What you gave up.”

“What I gave up for _you,_ Castiel corrected quietly. “And yes, this, among other things.”

“And you regret it,” Dean said. He didn’t expect his stomach to sink as much as it did with the words. 

“No,” answered Cas. “I don’t.”

Dean scoffed. “Why not? I saw you in there, man. Hell, I _felt_ you. You were pissed. You whaled on me and I get it, I deserve—”

“Would you shut up for a second?” said Castiel, and Dean did. His words cut off abruptly. When Cas was sure Dean was finished, he took a breath and continued. 

“No, I don’t regret it, Dean. Not even a little. Because even if—” Cas paused to clear his throat, composing himself. “Even if this, _us_ never happens in this way, even if this is it for us in that department, you gave me something I’ve never had. Angels might call each other ‘brother’ and ‘sister,’ but they were never family. And I only know that thanks to you, and Sam. And that means more to me than any of this,” he said, sweeping his arm out over the dark horizon. “Yes, it was worth it. But that doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to be angry with you when you’re acting like an ass, or feel hurt when you can’t risk your reputation for something I think you want too.”

Castiel finished, and the world was once more made of darkness and wind, the only sounds waves and the occasional cries of night birds. Dean tried to look at Cas, but found he couldn’t; shame kept his gaze glued to the sea, or the sand, or his own knees. They sat this way in silence for a long time. Cas was better at it than Dean. The angel didn’t appear antsy at all—he just sat there, still as a stone, watching the water rush up to meet the shore. Dean guessed he’d had a lot of practice, and a memory rushed to the forefront of his mind: Castiel’s voice on the other end of the phone line, saying simply, ‘I’ll just wait here then.’ And then, after, Cas placing a hand on his shoulder on the side of the road, pulling Dean from an apocalyptic world. Dean remembered the way the angel smiled, and back in the present, his lips twitched up at the corners, unbidden. 

“Okay,” said Dean, finally breaking the silence. 

“Okay what?” said Cas. 

“Okay,” Dean said and sat up straighter, steeling himself. “Okay, I hear you. Okay, we’ll do this thing for real. Okay, let’s tell Sammy in the morning. Okay, I love you, Cas. Okay?”

The stoic lines of Castiel’s face shifted suddenly into something soft and open, and that same smile Dean remembered from all those years ago twitched to his lips. “Okay,” he said.

“Okay,” said Dean again. Suddenly, he pushed to his feet and extended a hand to Cas. “C’mon.”

“Where are we going?”

“Better club. A private one,” said Dean. He smirked as Castiel took his hand, then turned and led them back up the slope of the beach to the hotel room.

*

As soon as the door closed behind them, Dean turned and pushed Cas up against it. He poised his lips right above Castiel’s, but didn’t close the gap. Instead, he searched Cas’s eyes, lifting one eyebrow in question. Cas gave a small nod, and Dean reached to flick the light switch to ‘off.’ The streetlight still filtered in through the thin curtains, bathing the room in a soft blue-black hue, but even in the dark Dean saw the glint of desire in Castiel’s eyes. 

Dean’s position was reversed on him as quickly as he’d initiated it, Cas flipping him to push his back into the door. But Cas didn’t hesitate; he caught Dean’s lips in a flurry of soft, quick kisses. Then, without warning, the kisses turned rough and needy: Cas kept pressing Dean into the door with one hand, and the other came to grip at the short hairs on the back of the hunter’s neck. Cas rolled his jaw open, and Dean’s lips parted easily beneath his, licking hungrily back into Castiel’s mouth. 

Castiel’s hand moved from Dean’s shoulder down to his hip, and Dean arched himself subtly forward, still gasping with long kisses. Tentatively, Cas’s hand at Dean’s hip fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, and he pulled back from the kiss just slightly to look at Dean in silent question. When Dean gave a short, breathless, barely-there nod, Cas slid his fingers beneath Dean’s shirt to grip hard at his skin, and Dean did the same, hands working their way to the small of Castiel’s back. 

Cas felt a shiver of impatience go down his spine, and without asking, he released the back of Dean’s neck to use both hands to roughly pull up Dean’s shirt. To his surprise, and delight, Dean didn’t resist, and instead pulled it off the rest of the way and let it crumple to the floor. One look at his face, and Cas knew Dean was nervous, but apparently Dean meant what he’d said on the beach about doing this for real, because he began shoving Cas’s shirt up over his head as well. 

With the shirts gone, Castiel walked them backwards to the bed, but again flipped at the last moment to push Dean down on his back. He stared for a moment at the half-bared man, borderline awestruck, before he climbed on top and captured Dean’s lips once more, just as they began to form his name. Cas swallowed the sound and echoed it with a small groan of his own, and then sat back, straddling Dean, suddenly aware that both of their jeans had gotten noticeably tighter. He ran his fingers admirably down Dean’s chest, over his abs, and stopped at the waistband of his jeans. 

“Cas, I don’t know if—” Dean started, but Cas shook his head.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, and instead dipped down to press much gentler, loving kisses the length of Dean’s collarbones, the curve where his shoulder met his neck, the rough stubble of his jawline. Dean shuddered, and Cas pulled back. “Dean?”

“Yeah, Cas,” said Dean breathlessly, gazing up at the angel above him. 

“We don’t—if you’re not ready, we can take this more slowly.”

“No, that was a good—this is good, Cas.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’d tell you if it wasn’t,” said Dean. “Didn’t I already?”

“You did,” said Cas, nodding. 

“Yeah,” said Dean, and Cas started to lean down once more, but Dean stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Nah. My turn.”

Castiel cocked his head to the side, but figured out Dean’s meaning quickly enough, rolling onto his back with Dean’s push. 

Dean took a deep breath, muttered “do it for real” beneath his breath, and crawled atop Cas to straddle him. He put a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, roughly where his own scar used to be, and froze. 

“Dude,” he said. “You’re _jacked._ ”

“I’m…what?”

“Ripped. I mean, I knew you weren’t weak, but we gotta get you a better-fitting suit.”

“Oh,” said Cas, and felt that tingle of impatience again. “I don’t care,” he finished, and pulled Dean down on top of him, sighing when the skin of their chests pressed together. 

Dean smirked and leaned down to kiss Cas—softly, at first. Tentative, as if they hadn’t done anything yet to get to this point. He unthinkingly gave Castiel’s bottom lip a playful nip with his teeth, and that changed everything. 

Cas gasped and wound his hands behind Dean’s back, fingers pressing into his skin, and rolled his hips unconsciously at the same time. The friction it caused sent a wave of rogue fireworks cracking through Dean’s blood, and with them, a shiver of fear. Dean let out a soft, helpless moan, and Cas arched up again, working a leg from beneath Dean to hug at the hunter’s side. 

Dean’s fear took over; he pushed himself up and closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. “Get it together,” he whispered to himself.

“Dean?” said Cas, his voice somehow lower than usual. 

Dean opened his eyes, and at the sight of his angel, lost it. Castiel’s cheeks were flushed, his lips red and wet from kisses, his blue eyes wide with need, and his hair sticking out in every direction, as wild and electric as the night they met. “Fuck it,” Dean sighed, and lowered himself back onto Cas’s chest with one arm. With his free hand, he grabbed the angel’s jaw to force his mouth open, and moaned into Castiel’s mouth, licking and kissing and biting. 

“Make that sound again,” said Dean, whispering into Cas’s kiss. 

“What sound?” Cas said breathlessly back. 

Dean sucked Castiel’s bottom lip into his mouth and again grazed it with his teeth, a bit harder this time, dragging it out a bit longer. Cas writhed beneath him, arching into the kiss, and low sound of pleasure rumbled up from his chest. 

“That one,” said Dean.

Inhibitions in the wind, Dean rolled his hips against Castiel, grinding their bodies together, which drew another moan from Cas. He rocked again, and again, until Cas picked up the rhythm and arched back in time, the front of their jeans growing almost uncomfortably warm from the building friction. Finally, Dean stopped, and, panting, reached down to let his fingers fidget with the button of Castiel’s jeans. He paused to look up nervously at the angel. In answer, Cas reached to hook fingers into Dean’s waistband to fumble with his buttons as well. 

In moments, they were in only boxer briefs, and Dean ground down on Cas again, losing himself when Cas rocked back. “Jesus, Cas, if you were a girl, I’d already be in—” he cut himself off abruptly, a cold sweat beading on his face and chest. “That’s not—that came out wrong.”

“You could be,” Cas said lowly, staring up at Dean. “I want you to be.”

“I’ve never…”

“I know.”

“I don’t know how—”

“I do.”

“Don’t we need some kind of—I don’t know. Something?”

“I don’t require protection, or lubrication, if that’s what you’re asking,” Cas said, his clinical tone returning.

“Hot,” said Dean, snorting. 

“You asked,” said Cas. 

“I know, but it’s—” Dean cut himself off and swallowed hard. Cas pushed his boxers down to his thighs, exposing himself to Dean. 

“I want you to,” growled Cas.

“What?” said Dean, borderline stammering. 

“I want you to be inside me.”

“I—”

“I’m telling you to fuck me, Dean,” Cas said darkly, and he looked up at Dean as if he was the one on top, the one in control. And when he arched his eyebrow, he may as well have been. 

“Okay,” said Dean, abandoning his nerves. He leaned back to pull Castiel’s boxers off the rest of the way before discarding his own. He leaned down again to kiss Cas and roll up against him again, and the skin-on-skin made them both shudder and moan into the other’s mouth. _It’s just like a chick, but different_ , Dean thought to himself as he broke the kiss, briefly, to spit into his palm and slick himself up. _Just like a chick. But it’s Cas, and you want this. You want this._

Dean lined himself up between Castiel’s legs, and when he was sure he was in the right place, he looked back to the angel. “Are you sure about this?”

In answer, Cas tightened his knees into Dean’s sides, that domineering brow arching again. 

That did it. Dean pushed up into Cas in one slow, clean motion, aided by Castiel’s thighs squeezing into his hips to bury him deep. A pair of low, dirty moans split the air in the room, and Dean was surprised to realize the loudest one was his. He crawled forward with his hands to lean down over Cas and kiss him again, sloppily, desperately. Cas returned it with teeth and growls, and fingers digging into Dean’s back, legs hugging his hips. He stayed still like this, roughly kissing Cas, until Cas arched his back and pulled Dean somehow deeper. 

Dean groaned and slowly sunk himself almost all the way back out of Cas, and groaned again when he pushed himself slowly back in. “Oh my god, Cas,” he moaned against Castiel’s collarbone. “Oh my god.”

Dean repeated this slow motion a few times more, getting his bearings, and then gradually started to pick up his pace. 

“You aren’t going to hurt me,” said Cas. 

Dean took this is a challenge. He gathered speed, rolling his hips quickly to fuck fluidly in and out of Cas. He was never the one to be loud during sex, but Dean found himself groaning helplessly with each deep push. Castiel arched his hips and worked his thighs to begin pulling Dean in impossibly deeper with each thrust, and soon, Cas was joining in the chorus of moans. The headboard slapped loudly against the wall with the rhythm. 

The angel’s hand fluttered down to pleasure himself, but when Dean noticed, he stopped him. _You’re all in now, Winchester. Man up._ He sat back a bit to gain access, but found he couldn’t keep up any kind of rhythm fucking Cas from the new angle. He frustratedly made another attempt, growling irritably when it didn’t work. Castiel, for his part, finally caught on. He tightened his thighs around Dean to hold him inside, and, in one fluid motion, rolled forwards so he was on top and Dean was flat on his back.

Dean let out a loud, unbidden cry of pleasure at the new depth the weight of Cas afforded him, and then looked up at the angel. He wrapped his hand around Castiel’s erection and tentatively began to stroke. As he did, Cas’s mouth fell open in a moan, and he placed his hands on either side of Dean’s head and started to rock himself up and down onto Dean, riding him hard. 

It didn’t take long after that. With every movement, Cas drove himself hard into Dean’s hand, and when he fell back, pushed Dean hard up into him, and suddenly Dean was groaning and swearing through his orgasm. His back arched and he threw back his head against the sheets in an open-mouthed moan, his hand not attending to Castiel’s pleasure digging hard into the angel’s thigh. Cas rode him through it, and then with a pornographic noise, was coming himself, throbbing in Dean’s hand. 

Slowly, Cas worked Dean out of him and then collapsed on the hunter’s chest, both of them panting. Dean threw an arm around Castiel’s neck and drew him in for a kiss. He tasted salt, but didn’t think anything of it until Cas drew back, worried.

“Dean? What is it? What’s wrong?”

“What?” said Dean, and his voice cracked. He reached up to touch his face, and instead of sweat found fat tears spilling freely from his eyes. “Oh. Shit.”

Cas backed away quickly, looking horrified. He found and pulled on his boxers in an absentminded flurry. 

“What? said Dean, sitting up. He was suddenly self-conscious, and drew the sheets over himself the best he could. 

“You—you regret this,” said Cas, horror melting into fear and unmistakable heartbreak. 

“What? Are you crazy? No, Cas, I—” Dean stammered, and it turned into a laugh. “No. No. Cas, I’m _happy_.”

Castiel’s features went slack, and he stared, open-mouthed and silent, back at Dean. Dean reached over to snag his own boxers and hurriedly shuffled them on—backwards, in the rush—to chase after Cas. He wound both arms around the angel’s back and drew him in close for a soft, burning kiss. When he broke it, Cas finally lifted his arms to embrace Dean in return. 

“Why are you crying?” he asked softly, wary. 

“I didn’t know I was,” Dean said with a little laugh. “But if I had to guess: because I wasted so much time to get here.” He pressed another tender kiss to Castiel’s lips, and then rested his forehead against the angel’s, and whispered, “I love you so damn much, Cas. So much I can’t stand it.”


End file.
